


His Father's Son

by aphilologicalbatman (inabathrobe)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, M/M, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Real Madrid is a family —sometimes a little too literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html?thread=920509#t920509) from the [footy ficathon](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/33981.html).

They probably wouldn't have done it if they weren't drunk. At least, Iker likes to think they wouldn't have. But, that night, he's had too many beers, mixed up with too much champagne, since it's nearly Christmas and they've all got an actual _break_ coming up. James is drinking like he doesn't want there to be a tomorrow, overseen by Cris, who seems to think that it's a great idea to just buy everyone shots. Mostly, it's just the young ones who are trying to keep up with Cris's credit card, but he sees Marcelo grab a couple and he _knows_ Sese must have had a few because he's hanging onto Iker's shoulder in a way that is less companionably affectionate and more desperate bid to stay fully vertical against a rapidly destabilizing world. Iker usually cuts him off before he gets this sloshed, but hey, it's Christmas. Even Iker isn't going to cut off his friends at Christmas. 

That doesn't mean he has to let Cris give the kids Christmas Eve hangovers. He adjusts Sergio onto the seat next to him, which gets him pouting. "What, you don't like me anymore?" he says, snide, running a hand over Iker's jaw. Iker gives him a look, which is enough to get Sergio grinning again. "Hey," he drawls, sliding forward on his stool and then purposefully falling off, so Iker has to catch him. "You wanna go somewhere?" Sergio whispers into Iker's face, breath hot and reeking of booze. He presses their hips together, and Sergio is half-hard against him, but Iker is not going to let that weaken his resolve.

"Hold that thought, baby, okay? I have to go save the boys from Cris's sick sense of humor."

"He's trying to get them drunk," Sergio says.

"I noticed."

"I think it's working."

"It worked on you."

"Not as drunk as you might think," Sergio says, winking pointedly at him.

Iker rolls his eyes. "Sit here. Drink your water," Iker says, sliding the tall perspiring glass across the table, so it's within Sergio's no-doubt-limited range of focus. "I'll be right back."

Sergio pouts, but that's as good as an admission that he would fall over if he stood up without Iker's help, so he feels confident in sauntering off to go tell Cris to stop getting the kids completely trashed. When he goes looking, though, Cris is missing, and it's just the boys, James but also Isco and Carvajal and Illarramendi and everyone else who is too, too young, but still old enough to know better. Iker walks over to them, slowly enough that he figures it's intentional when he catches Isco saying, "Look out, it's Captain Killjoy!"

He scrunches up his face and feels a decade older than he is. "Boys," he begins, and they all burst out laughing. He grits his teeth. "I know it's Christmas, spirit of the Advent and all, but don't you think you've had enough?"

Carvajal cocks his head at him, a little glassy-eyed. "Aw, come on, San Iker! Loosen up."

"Live a little," James pipes up from behind him, leaning clumsily against Illarra.

But it's Isco, the little shit, who says, "You know you're not actually our dad, right?"

Iker opens his mouth and closes it, and the boys burst out laughing, Illarra managing to get his beer to come back out his nose and choking gently on it while James pounds his back. "I am so painfully aware of it," Iker grits out. God, he is too drunk for this. He's getting ready to pull rank on them, pull the captain card, even though he'll feel like shit tomorrow for doing it, when warm arms clamp around his waist, and he feels someone —Sergio, it has to be Sergio— press his pointy chin into the crook of Iker's neck.

Illarra gives a little smug grin that he tries to tuck into his shoulder, and Isco's eyes glitter, and Iker can tell they're all thinking it, and then —oh, fuck, it's only because James doesn't know any better; he's so drunk, but he's a good kid, really— then James blurts out, "Mama's here!" Behind him, everyone else stills, even Isco's face going carefully blank. They don't talk about it. They all know, but they never, ever talk about it.

Sergio, bless him, is too far gone to not be a complete shit about it. "Look, papi, all our boys in one place! And they've gotten so big."

"They have your eyes, mama," Iker says icily, but Sergio is still going: "—But, no, where's our first-born son?"

It takes them all a minute to realize who he's talking about. "I think," Iker says tentatively, "he's outside shirking the terrific telling off he knows he has coming for getting all his younger brothers drunk."

And James says thickly, "Cris? Are they talking about _Cris_?"

Isco cracks a smile and says, not missing a beat, "Wow, Sergio, you two must have started _early_."

Sergio rounds on him. "Oye, chiquitito, you keep your mouth shut. That's enough of your sass; you talk nice to your papi and me. You think I won't let him take a belt to you? I will."

Illarra murmurs, "I'm not drunk enough for this," and goes to down another shot, and that's it. Iker is completely done with them.

"M'ijo, you put that in your mouth, and you're doing suicides till you pass out tomorrow."

(Isco opens his mouth to make the obvious comment, but Iker silences him with a look.)

"And you're _grounded_ ," Sergio trundles on, trying to gesture threateningly at him while still holding on to Iker for balance. To Iker's surprise, Illarra puts the shot down, raising his eyebrows at them.

"Right. We'll— I'm just—" Iker starts to realize and then shakes it off like water. "Sese and I are going to go get taxis; you better be ready to leave when we come back. Okay?"

They all nod. Iker, trying to maintain what scraps of dignity are left to him and also keep Sergio from falling over, scuttles over to the exit like a weird crab. Sergio half unwinds himself, but keeps a hand on Iker's arm, the biggest, drunkest lout of a Victorian lady. Iker, despite himself, covers Sergio's hand with his, presses down on it.

The doorman lets them out, only staring a little, which Iker appreciates. The cold air hits their faces like a slap, and he gasps into it. The street is bright, even at night, and it doesn't take him more than a moment to recognize the man hunching over in a black peacoat, mobile pressed to his ear.

"Our baby boy!" Sergio crows, and Cris's head comes up like the most horrified sun. "Querido, what're you doing out here? You'll catch your death of cold."

Cris, to Iker's astonishment, actually looks shifty. "I had to take a call."

"Is she nice?" Sergio says pointedly. "I mean, I know she's pretty, but is she _nice_ , baby?"

Cris stares at him, which seems fair. "It's family." Cris says something into the mouthpiece in Portuguese, and Iker feels momentarily bad until he catches his own name and Sergio's, too, and he pauses to think: it's nearly two a.m. and there's no way that anyone in Portugal is awake, and—

"Are you on the phone with _Ricky_?"

Cris actually manages to look slightly embarrassed. "No!"

Sergio clutches Iker's arm. "Oh, my god, they always used to pair off at parties, the teetotaling bastards, and they'd go outside and, and _not have a smoke together_."

Cris looks like a deer in headlights, and then Sergio is in motion, tackling Cris clumsily to the ground —which, thankfully, sends him into the club's landscaping, not the sidewalk— and Iker stands there, stunned, watching them wrestling for the phone, just out of reach, until he thinks to pick it up himself.

"Hello!" he says brightly, feeling suddenly very drunk. "How are you?"

There is a pause, just static on the other end, and then a familiar voice says, "Iker?", and oh, fuck, it is Ricky, it's _actually Ricky_ , not just some Portuguese girl that Cris had picked up on his last visit home.

"Yeah," Iker says. "It's me."

"What happened to Cris?"

"Sese tackled him."

"Of course," Ricky says crisply. "How's everything out there?" He sounds so formal, so far away. Not the Ricky Iker shared the pitch with.

"Pretty good, pretty good." He pauses, looking at the ground as though he were avoiding meeting Ricky's eyes. Cris has Sergio pinned and is tickling him viciously. "We're taking good care of Cris for you." Ricky gives a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Oh, god, not like that— I mean, maybe Fábio, but not us."

"How is your wife?" Ricky says, a little too wry, almost as though he were posturing. It had always made him a little uncomfortable; Iker had forgotten.

"Sara is doing really—"

Ricky's huff of a laugh cuts him off. "No, Iker, your _wife_. Unless you got married to Sara without inviting me?"

Iker looks down to check on Sergio. "At the moment? Very, very drunk. And I think Cris has him in a headlock." Sergio is actually yelling something about how he birthed Cris from his own loins and this is what he gets for sixteen hours of pain and suffering, eh, m'ijo?, but Iker leaves that part out. 

"Is that him shouting in the background?"

"Um—"

"I know his girlfriend was pregnant —I got the announcement— but why is _Sergio_ yelling about his labor pains?"

Iker tries to imagine an explanation that doesn't make them sound deranged. Instead, he says, parroting Sergio, "Cris is our first-born son."

There is silence on the other end of the line.

"You know, in addition to his brothers James and Illarra and Isco and, uh, Carvajal."

"I'm glad you two have such a big family. You must be very proud."

"Thank you," Iker says.

"Now, it's been lovely chatting, but if you don't mind, could you hand me back to Cris?"

"Of course. Give your wife our love! Ciao." Iker bends down and taps Cris on his shoulder, waving the phone at him.

Cris takes it without getting up. " _Alô_ , Ricky?" is all Iker manages to catch before he's off and running in Portuguese. After a minute, he puts a hand over the receiver. "He says I should get you two a taxi." Iker tries to look abashed. Cris says something in Portuguese into the phone. "Oh, and to tell you two to be careful or I'll have another baby brother in addition to James— What the fuck did you two talk about?"

Iker grins. "Get up off your mother, son, and pray you never find out."

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/).


End file.
